About Us

We miss October. We are two of those people who love the art of carving pumpkins and telling ghost stories over hot apple cider, and all the holiday brings. I started writing this blog for myself, keeping track of all I see and do throughout the Halloween season, and have been joined by my haunted friend What a Witch in our quest to live our upstate New York Halloween to the fullest. We document all of our Halloween projects, products and anything we can find related to October 31 here.
This blog is named after a phrase from one of my favorite, not necessarily Halloween-related poems, Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven."
Happy Haunting.

This year, I started reading about the La Befana, the Italian Christmastime legend. Anyone who knows the story of the Befana will know she is a kind, old woman with a broom who brings good children presents on Christmas. Many will tell you she is a witch. Delving deep into the Italian mythology, however, I have not found enough evidence to convict her of witchcraft. Perhaps the fact that Befana is old, with a broom at her side as a constant was enough for her to become a witch by association while the legend lived on and aged-- or, perhaps, it was the intent of the stories which were told to cast her always a witch. Never the matter; there is something about the legend of the Santa Claus-like woman being a witch which enamours the Halloween heart. And something, too, very true to the part of the witch in legend, where the indiviudal will become labeled a witch, for displaying simple pieces of the archetype.

More formally, the story of Befana has tried to explain her as an heir to a heathen goddess, or at the least begetting her name from such an earth goddess. Befana is commonly described as a devoted housekeeper, who in the most often told story meets the three Magi on their way to visit the Christ child in Bethlehem, and, after they offer to have Befana join them on their quest, are turned down by her, for she has too much to do. Too many floors to be swept and kept clean, too much to do, to go on such a journey. Befana, on their leaving, regrets her decision, and has since spent the ages looking for the Christ child; finding other children on Christmas, and bearing them gifts, when she realizes she has not found the child she is searching for, yet.

The Christmas ghosts, the Christmas horned-one, the Christmas witch. It would appear there is enough during the dark months while the snow is falling to keep a Halloween child involved, entertained, interested.

To further celebrate my Befana Christmas, I attempted cut-out cookies of the old woman, with the help of one of my witch cookie cutters-- to questionable success.

Tuesday, December 10, 2013

Although the season I so love is over, and I have-- with regret-- accepted that-- I am still here. I have to admit, with all these jingling bells, snowflakes, red-suited men and reindeer, I feel terribly out of place, such as our friend Mr. Jack Skellington here.

Over what I am sure will be a long, blustery, white, cold, dark winter, I will be writing more. Now that autumn has come to a close, I will have time to finally write of my trip to Salem, Massachusetts, this past fall, and my own personal season of the witch. And absolutely, I will-- while Christmas and snow rages outside-- find some time for some scary ghost stories. And share them here.

And found nothing. After the fifth and sixth combination of "Margaret Hamilton Seasame Street" in my YouTube search bar, I realized something was suspect. Probably some copyright issue, I thought. Wrong. Clips of Margaret Hamilton, in character as the Witch of the West from the Wizard of Oz, on Seasame Street are unavailable not because of some copyrigtht issue, but because the episode-- having been deemed too scary for children-- has not re-aired or been seen since its premiere in 1976.

"The Wicked Witch responds by making it rain inside [Mr.] Hooper's Storeand even threatens to turnBig Birdinto a feather duster and David into a basketball.

Only Oscar the Grouch initially admires her and suspects he may even have a crush on the witch. The remainder of the episode's street scenes follow the witch's attempts to retrieve the broom, including disguising herself as a harmless old lady. Big Bird grows to like her, and is, saddened when the witch departs, but she drops the broom yet again."

After reaction that included letters from parents complaining that Margaret's Witch was too scary for their children-- and a response from a Wiccan who equated the Oz character with their religion-- it was decided the show would never be re-run. And to the Internet's knowledge, it never has. What a loss, what a loss. What a world, what a world.

For some consolation that-- at least for now-- you are not able to watch Oscar the Grouch fawning over the Witch of the West, watch this later appearance by Hamilton, dressing in character on a popular children's television program which caused far less hysteria; when Mr. Rodgers welcomed the Witch to the neighborhood.

Sunday, November 3, 2013

The first few days of November are always a melancholy time. Pumpkins begin to leave windows, be thrown out, and gradually the orange glow and the crisp cool nights are replaced by images of turkeys, faceless pumpkins and cold, cold nights. All while Christmas carols begin to sneak their bells into the air.

However, this year found me with appropriate bookends for the All Hallow's season. Earlier in the season, I wrote about how going to the "Frightworld" haunted attraction was the perfect beginning to set the spirit for the season. Last night, I found myself at "Frightworld" again, picking up what is now my new favorite t-shirt. Brilliantly, "Frightworld" was still open this weekend and delivering the scares. Walking into the building, hearing people scream, watching a group of girls walk out of a haunt clutching each other, I saw in the illuminated darkness that Hallowen is alive and well. Seeing the outside of the Eerie Asylum haunt, watching the lights flicker and hearing the screams made me want to walk through each one of them again-- and I would have, if it weren't for the people waiting for me out in the car.

Thank you, Frightworld, for giving such a fitting beginning and end to Halloween 2013. Here's to next season-- and the three-hundred sixty-some days I have to blog about my favorite time of year until it is actually, again, here.

Thursday, October 31, 2013

Well. The day for the blog is finally here. The reason I write these thoughts here, All Hallow's Eve is here. And I seem to be spent from the day, the night. Always, the rush to get the lights up, the tombstones out, the costume on before the trick or treaters arrive. Again, this year I believe I did a fair job of it -- but not enough, never enough.

God, do I love this holiday. Everything it stands for; every foam tombstone out in the yard, every trick or treater wide-eyed at my fog machine spraying fog on the porch, every wig and piece of makeup to create a costume. The harvest, the day when the veil between the living and the dead is the thinniest, when everyone, no matter living or dead, can walk amongst us, and everyone can be whomever she or he wants to be. Mask or no mask.

Thursday, October 10, 2013

Tonight, the moon is high in the October sky; bright, beaming, cool and windy. I stood in the dark watching it for a few moments, understanding competely how people of less developed times may have been spooked by the moonlight, alone.

It was the kind of moonlight no camera would capture, out there in the dark. While no photograph will capture that feeling, perhaps, some music can. And so, for tonight, in the high moonlight, here is some original Halloween music by Michael Szmania. For the moonlight, for your pumpkin carving, to play as your trick or treaters come to the door. Some great October ambiance.

Wednesday, October 9, 2013

I know not what show this is, I know not what ethical waivers the producers may have entered or what these, for lack of a better word, contestants may have known going in. I know not what anyone here in this clip from Brazil is saying, but I know one thing.

Without researching online whether or not the seeds of a rotting pumpkin could keep, or be roasted, I decided to try and save the seeds anyway. I cut into the soft pumpkin skin and removed all the pumpkin, as much of the seeds as I could, and submerged the pumpkin in water to separate the seeds. It remains to be seen how they will turn out.

Before throwing away the pieces of rotted pumpkin, I did the pumpkin right and cut a face into one of the firmer pieces. All this work, all the planting and watering and weeding and tending to harvest the thing-- all to cut into it for seeds and a face.

In happier pumpkin growing related news, I have a third-- smaller, but very strong-- pumpkin still mostly green, but soon ready to harvest. I had not placed much faith in this third pumpkin; however, the plant I believe will soon prove me very wrong.

Monday, October 7, 2013

A brief post tonight. Here is an image very likely-- and likely to be believed-- as Edgar Allan. This portrait was pained by a John McDougall, about 1846 in New York City. This likeness is one of only a select handful of images believed to be authentically Poe. Unlike the more commonly thought image of Poe moustached and with deep, sullen and sunken eyes, this picture would likely be more close to how Edgar would have looked during the composition of some of his earllier works.

Without a doubt, what impressed me the most this year about Frightworld was "Eerie State Asylum." What so often is a part of what puts Frightworld a step above the rest is the local roots the attraction has, roots which can clearly be seen in the "Erie State Asylum" house. Any haunted attraction can give you a haunted house, or creepy woods. Only Frightworld has given me a house based on Buffalo's H. H. Richardson Complex, a building built in 1870 as the Buffalo State Asylum for the Insane. The Asylum, which operated until the 1970s is without a doubt haunted in likely many forms. If you ever pass the building by, which sat empty and neglected for decades until recent projects have hopefully begun to revive it, you know. Just looking at the towers, the imposing structure of the building, you feel what happened there. The sadness, the terror, the fear of the unknown. Volumes of local lore and ghost stories have been told, time and again, throughout the years. In fact, the Buffalo State Asylum is likely one of Buffalo's biggest ghosts. I have long had a deep, personal connection to the building, one that has lead me to do a great deal of research on the place and its history-- research that will appear later this month here on the blog. To walk in and see one of the haunts made out with a complete recreation of the fomer Buffalo Asylum Building-- complete with lights flashing in windows, and the famous bronze green of the asylum's towers (made, I would come to find out, of actual bronze)-- was, and is, something special. And that was just the outside. The inside of the haunt excelled.... but I promise not to spoil the outside or what lies within here.

Whatever the weather outside may be, if it is not yet quite as cool, calm, windy as October will become so very shortly-- this is October. Within the walls of Frightworld lies October, in all of its pumpkin flickering, heart racing, chainsaw weilding, bump in the night, ghost story glory. For all the fear, for all the October-- thank you, Frightworld, for bringing us Halloween.

Two ghosts, Bryan and Laura, on either end of Frightworld's GM, Stephen Szortyka

The newly formed organization "Poe Baltimore," which was helped with city funding and has worked toward ways to make the historic site financially sound and self-sufficent, has now assumed all responsibility for the operating and funding of the museum.

Friday, October 4, 2013

For something different this evening, a little reading. While my just past trip to Salem, Massachusetts, the site of the infamous 1692 witchcraft hysteria and trials, still freshly settling in my mind, the subject of witches won't seem to leave me. Who they are, who they were, who they weren't and who they could be.

The coach was so nearly empty that the little
boy had a seat all to himself, and his mother sat across the aisle on the seat
next to the little boy’s sister, a baby with a
piece of toast in one hand and a rattle in the other. She was strapped securely
to the seat so she could sit up and look around, and whenever she began to slip
slowly sideways the strap caught her and held her halfway until her mother
turned around and straightened her again. The little boy was looking out the
window and eating a cookie, and the mother was reading quietly, answering the
little boy’s questions without
looking up.

“We’re
on a river,” the little boy said. “This
is a river and we’re on it.”

“Fine,”
his mother said.

“We’re
on a bridge over a river,” the little boy said to
himself.

The few other people in the coach were
sitting at the other end of the car, if any of then had occasion to come down
the aisle the little boy would look around and say, “Hi,”
and the stranger would usually say, “Hi,”
back and sometimes ask the little boy if he were enjoying the train ride, or
even tell him he was a fine big fellow. These comments annoyed the little boy
and he would turn irritably back to the window.

“There’s
a cow,” he would say, or,
sighing, “How far do we have to
go?”

“Not much longer now,”
his mother said, each time.

Once the baby, who was very quiet and busy
with her rattle and toast, which the mother would renew constantly, fell over
too far sideways and banged her head. She began to cry, and for a minute there
was noise and movement around the mother’s seat. The little boy
slid down from his own seat and ran across the aisle to pet his sister’s
feet and beg her not to cry, and finally the baby laughed and went back to her
toast, and the little boy received a lollipop from his mother and went back to
the window.

“I saw a witch,”
he said to his mother after a minute. “There was a big old ugly
old bad old witch outside.”

“Fine,”
his mother said.

“A big old ugly witch and
I told her to go away and she went away,” the little boy went on,
in a quiet narrative to himself, “she came and said, “I’m
going to eat you up,” and I said, “no,
you’re not,”
and I chased her away, the bad old mean witch.”

He stopped talking and looked up as the outside
door of the coach opened and a man came in. He was an elderly man, with a
pleasant face under white hair; his blue suit was only faintly touched by the
disarray that comes from a long train trip. He was carrying a cigar, and when
the little boy said, “Hi,”
the man gestured at him with the cigar and said, “Hello
yourself, son.” He stopped just beside
the little boy’s seat, and leaned
against the back, looking down at the little boy, who craned his neck to look
upward. “What you looking for out
that window?” the man asked.

“That’s my sister other there,” the little boy said to the man. “She’s twelve-and-a-half.”

“Do you love your sister?” the man asked. The little boy stared, and the man
came around the side of the seat and sat down next to the little boy. “Listen,” the man said, “shall I tell you about my little sister?”

The mother, who had looked up anxiously when the
man sat down next to her little boy, went peacefully back to her book.

“Tell me about your sister,” the little boy said. “Was she a witch?”

“Maybe,” the man said.

The little
boy laughed excitedly, and the man leaned back and puffed at his cigar. “Once upon a time,” he began, “I had a little sister, just like yours.” The little boy looked up at the man, nodding at
every word. “My little sister,” the man went on, “was so pretty and so nice that I loved her more than anything else in
the world. So shall I tell you what I did?”

The little
boy nodded more vehemently, and the mother lifted her eyes from her book and
smiled, listening.

“I bough her a rocking-horse and a doll and a
million lollipops,” the man said, “and then I took her and put my hands around her neck and I pinched her
and I pinched her until she was dead.”

The little
boy gasped and the mother turned around, her smile fading. She opened her
mouth, and then closed it again as the man went on, “And then I took and I cut her head off and I took
her head—“

“Did you cut her all in pieces?” the little boy asked breathlessly.

“I cut off her head and her hands and her feet and
her hair and her nose,” the man said, “and I hit her with a stick and I killed her.”

“Wait a minute,” the mother said, but the baby fell over sideways just at that minute
and by the time the mother had set her up again the man was going on.

“And I took her head and I pulled out her hair
and---“

“Your little sister?” the little boy prompted eagerly.

“My little sister,” the man said firmly. “And I put her head in a cage with a bear and the
bear ate it all up.”

“Ate her head all
up?” the little boy asked.

The mother
put her book down, and came across the aisle. She stood next to the man and
said, “Just what do you think you’re doing?” The man looked up courteously and she said, “Get out of here.”

“Did I frighten you?” the man said. He looked down at the little boy and
nudged him with an elbow and he and the little boy laughed.

“This man cut up hi little sister,” the little boy said to his mother.

“And little sister’s head, too,” the man said. He stood up, and the mother stood back to let him get out
of the seat. “Don’t ever come back in this car,” she said.

“My mommy will eat you,” the little boy said to the man.

The man
laughed, and the little boy laughed, and then the man said, “Excuse me,” to the mother and went past her out of the car. When the door had
closed behind him the little boy said, “How much longer do we have to stay on this old train?”

“Not much longer,” the mother said. She stood looking at the little
boy, wanting to say something, and finally she said, “You sit still and be a good boy. You may have
another lollipop.”

The little
boy climbed down eagerly and followed his mother back to her seat. She took a
lollipop from a bag in her pocketbook and gave it to him. “What do you say?” she asked.

Thursday, October 3, 2013

Tonight, a bit of newness from a relatively new holiday tradition. For me, the animated television show "The Simpsons" have always done Halloween specials right. Their annual "Treehouse of Horror" episodes are something I always look forward to, and things I often rewatch. Making the rounds on social media this evening, the opening for this year's episode (directed by Guillermo del Torro) proves no exception. For your viewing pleasure, this year's opening. Try to keep track of every horror reference that lies within-- everything from Poe to Lovecraft to King to del Toro's own work. Well done, in my book.

And for something with a more nostalgic feel, my personal favorite "Treehouse of Horror" episode: the Simpsons tackle Edgar's "The Raven." Cinema, and TV, have not been kind to Poe's work, and their true spirit. This clip, with Homer as the poem's spearker, I've long considered to be one of the kindest to Poe's source material; something I heard echoed, even, during more than one college course in English.

And, with the ushering in of this time of the year I am so partial to, I begin another year of "The Halloween Candy Project," with a rather healthy kick-off, brought to you by a trip to my local Mayer Bros' cider mill for some apple-inspired treats.

Tuesday, October 1, 2013

October, finally, in all its leaf falling, burning red, cool nights of glory, is here. At once, the joy of knowing that it is the most wonderful time of the year, and the panic that sets in knowing that never, whatever I do, will it be enough.

This year I have something different, however. My efforts caused these pumpkins to grow. I can now say that I have grown pumpkins-- only two, but two nonetheless, and two bright, round, beautiful orange pumpkins I could not be more proud of.

I bought the plants this spring, from a local herb and plant farm, grown organically. I wasn't even sure at the time if I would find or have a place to plant them in, let alone if they would grow. I did, and grew they did. With some love, care and a lot of rain that I am sure did not hurt things.

What better way may there be to start off October, than a harvest of pumpkins?

Sunday, September 22, 2013

The first of many posts about my Salem visit. While there, walking the streets and shops and cemeteries and seeing what has come to be after the generation-spanning effects of the witchcraft hysteria and trials, I saw "smudge sticks" being commerically sold. A smudge stick being, simply, a bundle of dried herbs used for any number of religious and/or spiritual rites through burning. With thoughts of stories where sage is burned to cleanse malicious spirits or release energy, I was intrigued, and thought of the herbs I had growing back at home.

Some online research shows the worlds the customs of making and burning smudge sticks have become. Attempted definitions refer to customs in the spirit of some unnamed and hard to trace Native American, or otherwise indigenous, spiritual practice. The history of smudge sticks seems to have deriven from specific Native practices, and has-- while still being practiced for those original purposes-- been repurposed, and often commercialized, to become a practice of using a calvacade of herbs for an equally as diverse number of spiritual purposes.

What you will need.

And so, with due respect to the practices, religions, customs and beliefs of those who lead to the creation of this practice, I made some smudge sticks, using a number of how-to directions from the Internet. This is what I found, and how I did it. Many other blogs, articles and websites-- such as here at About.com-- have far better directions than I will on how to do this-. So, if you will: take this as one ghost's experience making herb smudge sticks, for the first time.

What You Will Need:

-Freshly cut or dried herbs. (I used sage, lavendar and rosemary, freshly cut.)
-A pair of scissors.
-Some string or twine.
-Patience. (The drying process can take anywhere from a few weeks to a month.)

Step 1: Harvest or cut your herbs. Place them into roughly neat bundles, and make an effort to line up the bottoms of the stems as best you can.

Step 2: Take your string. Cut about 5 feet, 8 inches of string for each stick you will do. I found it worked best to have the string pre-cut, before starting on the bundle for each smudge stick. Drape about an inch of string over the end of the stems, at the bottom. Take the other side of the string, and wrap the string, at the same point/place, several times. About four to five.

Step 3: Take that string, and at an angle, begin to wind the string up the bundle. Half way to the top, take the string and wind a few times at the same point for support.

Step 4: Repeat the winding of the string a few times once you have reacher the top. Leave some space at the top as you will, once finished, cut a bit of the top to make the stick even.

Step 5: Wind the string downward, going back to where you started. Once you have reached the end, you should have roughly the same amount of string left as the inch or so you hung off at the beginning. (However, if this isn't the case, don't fret; you may cut them to make the stick even.)

Step 6: With the end you have been winding together at the original, other half of the string, tie 2-3 knots for support.

Step 7: Cut any excess string down as much as possible. Also cut an even line at the top of your stick; do the same at the bottom. Feel free to trim any excess herb sticking out of your bundle you feel necessary.

Step 8: And so you have your smudge stick. Find a place to hang your stick(s) to allow them to dry and form. Some writings say to place the sticks in a paper bag while you hang them, to protect them from light which causes their color to fade as they dry.

Step 9: Wait 2-4 weeks for the sticks to dry. Some sources say a full month, others 2-3 weeks. I'm going with 2-4 weeks.Step 10: Then, you will have your smudge stick. With herb combinations such as sage and rosemary, used by many traditions for spiritual and energy cleansing purposes, you will be ready to burn, in a fire-resistant container, your smudge stick.

Once I have reached this point and have experience enough to write about it, I will do another post and link here for an update.

Saturday, September 14, 2013

Friday night. This week, the temperatures have dropped here in upstate New York (after soaring briefly, unpleasantly.) I have taken my fall jackets, plaid shirts, pants out of the closet and am now wearing them. In the pumpkin patch I planted never expecting a harvest, my two pumpkins have grown to be big and orange and bright; and, soon, ready to be harvested. The night is coming.

Fall is here. I'm starting out by going somewhere I have always wanted to, a place that has come to be linked to the season of the witch. This weekend I will be in Salem, Massachusetts. Where, in 1692 through 1693, women and men were accused and tried for the crime of witchcraft, infamously leading to the executions of 19 women and men for these alleged crimes.

I have always thought of these events with a great sadness, that these unfortunate souls became victims of religious, political and social hysteria, and this lead to their unjust deaths.

I have also always been fascinated by the trope of the witch. The mysterious other, the often female or feminine, who can control, use nature to empower herself. Often frightening, often powerful, on occasion misunderstood. With due respect to the religion of Wicca, it is the way figures thought of as witches, the other, have been defined and explored that I have always been in love with, always wanted to explore, more, that draws me to people, places and pasts like Salem.

Tonight I am traveling across New York, headed for Massachusetts, where the idea of "the witch" created such horror so many years ago. I plan on taking as many photos, and writing as many words, as I can of what I will see.